At The Time
Someone will always have nerve to say,
in the blurry bathwater gue of drunken
Hallow's Eve, recrimination session at
breakfast table's alarm next to the whole milk
jug, that this seemed like charming gold.
Someone will always hand you another can
of whatever it was they were having, hoping
to trip weights in favour measure themselves
imagined as boldly spoken fortune,
beneath the discotheque's pounding pan-flash.
Someone will always pass a next dirty glass
devil's talking turn amongst hurly-burly boys
and girls you'll apologize to for next year's
feelings today; no mind to place's carving space,
that special someone will always do,
And you'll take it down anyways,
you can't speak a word without its vice.
Heavy wears the headed crown of thornful
regret of gold fashioned from half-glances,
coming on like lighting bolts coursing through
vapor clouds that mingle between our lips.
Guild with jewels most regal, in kind of
frozen blood and tear from Queen of Scots
coronation; the illusion of power in heart
of castle keep, in well-chiseled tablets.
Clinical, piece-by-piece and back together,
inched across in jeweler's eyeglass reflection
the curve of every crystal from both sides now known,
but never their methods, their meanings.